Disclaimer: these characters are owned by JK Rowling, yadda yadda yadda.... But seriously, no offense or unlawful actions were intended in the making of this story, and if your opinion differs, I am dreadfully sorry.... Meanwhile, Ms Rowling is queen of the world right now, laughing as America scrambles to buy vomit-flavoured jelly-beans. mmm...I love the taste of vomit and comsumerism in the morning...

This should be coming along depending on the time I have away from my thesis to work on it. If you wish to comment or inquire, please do so, I'm always open for suggestions, and I'm certainly receptive to compliments.

Regards, Iphignia


It had, admittedly, started with her hands. He had watched her in the library one day, raising inquiring eyebrows and smirking at the look of concentration that often furrowed her face when she worked on a particular problem in his classroom. He studied her, as he studied everything. The way her elegant neck bent slightly sideways, letting her recently cropped hair brush it's ends over the nape. Her eyes were closed, as she visualized something beyond his reasoning, and her posture straight backed. She perched on the edge of a large, rather comfortable looking chair, and hummed under her breath, almost inaudibly. It was her voice that stopped him in the beginning, ringing breathily through the empty library, silent and deserted but for them; he, sneaking shyly in to pick up a book on potent wildflowers, and the young post- graduate student, seated at a desk, but facing away from her studies, towards the window, humming.

It was her hands that really caught his eye though. Her elbows bent out from her shoulders in a graceful dancer's pose, and her right hand seemed fixed in a loose and elegant grip. Her other hand curled in front of her, moving up and down as her right moved back and forth. He watched the play of muscle over her right hand as the fingers switched positions, in accordance to her humming. Her hands were smooth and tapered, small and sleek, with perfect white crescents at the very ends. She wore no rings, and he could see from where he was standing, the grace and agility in those fine hands.

It would be a grand thing, he thought, to actually hear her play.

He wondered if she did this often, and how, after she had attended this school for eight years, he had never known that she played the cello. He had known she was shy, especially after having graduated, when he realized the reasons behind her being so close to the two maddening boys, who seemed to mistreat and ignore her at every turn. They had been her only friends.

In the half a year that had followed her graduation thus far, she had continued her studies independently, working with her various teachers as advisors, and barely looking up from her books to eat or sleep. He had recognized it as a form of denial, as well as finally the release to pursue what she truly wished to do. And yet, there still was a loneliness about her. The subtle hint of a young woman in her prime, bending her straight back over a library desk, when the time of study should have concluded and her life experiences begun. At times, he would see her walk back to her quarters in the early hours of the morning, rubbing her long neck and rolling her shoulders to relieve some of the tension there. It had reminded him of himself.

He stood to the right of her now, examining her fingers as her head bent slightly side to side, the chestnut curls that clung to her head in a fashion popular in the twenties, now escaping from behind her ears and falling to her chin. It suited her, he thought, though it seemed the change had been more practical than aesthetic, opting for short hair in order to better study without interference and to facilitate easy care. Now, he noted, it must have also been in order to play the cello without the bother of long hair. He had cut his own hair to a manageable length a few years ago, after tiring of the way it caught in the chin of his violin. Now it merely hung irritably into his eyes, and he was forced to stop his playing to sweep it back from his vision.

He watched her for a moment longer, admiring the change from girl to woman she had made so subtly, and then he swept out of the library. He willed himself not to think of her skin in the moonlight through the window, her cunning hands playing the phantom cello, her shining hair meeting the white nape of her neck. He thought, instead, of her playing itself. How he had arrogantly thought himself the only wizard in the world who played muggle music, how his solitary playing had become his touchstone, and how, now, he felt less alone in the castle, with another secret shy wielder of both bow and wand.